


Gamzee: Contemplate

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Insanity, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-15
Updated: 2012-03-15
Packaged: 2017-11-01 23:37:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Gamzee Makara, and you are a wreck</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gamzee: Contemplate

Your name is Gamzee Makara, and you are a wreck.  
  
Any one of your friends on this rock would agree with you in a single pump of their bloodpusher, if solicited for an opinion. You’ve been a wreck ever since one Dave Strider sent you a link to a video that destroyed your belief in the mirthful messiahs, ever since the sopor slime ran out and you had nothing left to rot your thinkpan and keep those murderous thoughts at bay.  
  
You’ve been a wreck ever since your moirail shoosh-papped you out of your murderous rampage and brought you back to some state of sanity.  
  
Somedays, you like to think that it wasn’t your fault that you snapped. It was Dave’s fault for sending you that music video. It was your body’s fault for making you so addicted to the effects of sopor slime, the sopor slime’s fault for leaving you without any way of dealing with the shit your heritage would inevitably do to your sanity, your ancestry’s fault for setting you up for carrying out the legacy of the subjuggulators you’d once dreamt of becoming. It was Karkat’s fault that he didn’t get there quickly enough to shoosh-pap you and prevent the deaths of the trolls who had once been your teammates in a game that had gone horribly awry. It was Kanaya’s fault for not doing more to stop you when she kicked you in the groin and sent you flying off the plateau where you’d been facing Vriska and Eridan just moments before.  
  
You spend most, if not all, of your time these days in the room where you’ve stored dead bodies and severed heads in glass jars. It’s a lonely, morbid sort of existence, you suppose, but you like it. Sort of. It reminds you of your insane rampage not too long ago, and the reminder hurts more than you can stand some days, but it’s a safety measure in case you snap again. You can’t kill corpses, after all. It’s a nice anchor. Looking at the bodies of the trolls that you killed, the trolls that others killed, trolls that you’d fought alongside, trolls that you’d lived and laughed and danced with. Some of them had paid you for a nap in the horn pile you’d built. You’d tried to introduce them to the wonders of the wicked elixir, and they’d all spurned it in their own way, but that hadn’t bothered you one motherfucking bit, because you understood that some trolls just couldn’t handle what a miraculous beverage Faygo was.  
  
Sometimes, you kiss the dead. It isn’t always in a way that could be construed as vaguely red. There are times when you do it because you wonder which of those trolls could have been your matesprit, which ones could have been your kismesis. If things had turned out differently, would one have auspisticed between you and another of these corpses? Between you and Dave? You don’t know, but you like to think that those things might have happened in another timeline.  
  
Most of the time, you kiss the severed heads as a way of asking for their forgiveness.  
  
You aren’t responsible for most of the corpses, true. You didn’t kill Tavros, or Eridan, or Feferi, or Sollux, you know that. You aren’t sure about how Vriska died, exactly, but you know that you didn’t do it. You only killed Equius and Nepeta because they’d interjected, because you had thought it your right, your  _duty_ , to subjuggulate every troll on that asteroid, to kill them all because it amused you, because you had thought yourself higher than everyone. And maybe you’d been right. Maybe that was your duty, the task set before you by your ancestors, but it certainly was not a good idea, not here in this asteroid where he was trapped with a no-nonsense, chainsaw-wielding rainbowdrinker.   
  
At any rate, you were sorry for their deaths now. All of them: sneaky, snarky Vriska Serket; Nepeta, whose sweet nature masked just how bloodthirsty and dangerous she could be when roused; irritating fish-faced Eridan, with his ridiculous accent; the Heiress, Feferi, who had been sweeter than Nepeta at times and had just wanted everyone to work together and be friends; lisping, nerdy Sollux, who had been the most recent to die. And Tavros, his Tavbro, his stuttering, faltering, stubborn, skylarking bro, who’d he’d shared many a rapoff with, who he’d once suggested having sloppy makeouts post-rap-off to. Tavros had been the first to die, and you can’t help but miss him still, even though over half a sweep has passed since then. You’re careful to tend to your dead Tavbro first whenever you start kissing the corpses.  
  
You still hear them. The voices. The ones in your head, who told you of your ancestry, your destiny, and showed you the truth of it all: that your long-awaited mirthful messiahs were you and also you, that the sopor slime pies you’d grown so accustomed to enjoying had rotted your thinkpan and blinded you to reality.Those voices were the ones that motivated you to embrace your calling as one of the subjuggulators and kill everyone, and it was those same voices who now encouraged you to snap again, to leave your safe room of corpses and kill all who remained on the asteroid.   
  
_ what’s that little mutantblood know of the subbjugulators?   
_  
_ NOT A MOTHERFUCKING THING, MOTHERFUCKER.  
_  
 _ kill the little fucker.  
_  
 _ MOTHERFUCKING KILL THAT MOTHERFUCKER.  
_  
 _ make him kneel.  
_  
 _ MAKE ALL THOSE MOTHERFUCKERS KNEEL.  
_  
And you’d argue with them, with  _yourself_ , tell them that you can’t do that. How could you possibly kill your moirail, the troll who shooshpapped you out of a murderous rage and forgave you for killing Equius and Nepeta. Karkat hadn’t forgotten,  _couldn’t_ forget that you’d killed them. No one could, not even you, not with the long scars across your face that Nepeta’s claws had given you when she’d tried to avenge Equius’ murder at your hands.   
  
_ remember how you made him kneel?  
_  
 _ YOU FORCED THAT MOTHERFUCKER TO KNEEL BEFORE YOU WITH A MOTHERFUCKING ARROW.  
_  
 _ that shit was great.  
_  
 _ WE SHOULD DO IT A MOTHERFUCKING GAIN.  
_  
But you don’t  _ want _ to do it again, you try to reason. You’re happy in here,  _safe_ in here, comfortable among your corpses and severed heads, the walls that you’ve painted with their multicoloured blood. You don’t really want to leave this room, not even to check up on Karkat or confront Dave. You won’t be as safe out here. Karkat told you as much. He’d told you that, when the human kids had first joined them on the asteroid, when you’d slunk off with Vriska and Sollux’s corpses, Kanaya had wanted to go after you. She’d wanted to punish you, to kill you and rid them of a mentally-unstable troll.   
  
_ fucking hypocrite.  
_  
 _ MOTHERFUCKER JUST WANTS TO DRINK ALL THIS MOTHERFUCKING SUB FUCKING JUGGULATOR BLOOD.  
_  
It wouldn’t surprise you if others on the asteroid shared Kanaya’s worries that Karkat’s shooshpapping wouldn’t keep you from snapping again, that no one would be able to subdue you next time you decided to follow your calling. No one wanted to die, after all, you least of all.  
  
Maybe it would be best if you  _did_ die. The other trolls and the humans would be safer, then, if you were gone. It wasn’t enough to just remove yourself to your little space down here; sooner or later, you were bound to crack again, and then they’d have to take you out. Would you even be of any use when you all faced Bec Noir, as the Rose human had said was inevitable. You had a sweep left until then, and you weren’t sure you could last that long and still be sane enough to be of any use to your friends.   
  
It would be easy to surrender yourself to Kanaya so that she could ensure the others’ safety. You could even deliver yourself to Terezi, and trust in her warped sense of blind justice to take care of things. You weren’t sure that anyone else would be capable of killing you, Karkat least of all. He wouldn’t understand why it was necessary for you to die.   
  
_ yOU, uH, cAN’T DO THAT, gAMZEE,  
_  
 _ shut up._

_gAMZEE, pLEASE_

  
_ SHUT YOUR MOTHERFUCKING MOUTH, LOWBLOOD.  
_  
Oh no.  
  
 _ how dare you order a subjuggulator around?  
_  
 _ WHAT RIGHT DO YOU HAVE TO ORDER A MOTHERFUCKING SUBJUGGULATOR AROUND?  
_  
Not again.  
  
 _ we’re higher than you.  
_  
 _ WE’RE HIGHER THAN ALL YOU MOTHERFUCKERS.  
_  
 _ bUT,,, dON’T YOU, uH, WANT gAMZEE TO LIVE?  
_  
You don’t want Tavros getting involved in your madness.  
  
 _ D--> Highb100d, don’t listen to their f001ishess  
_  
 _ oh, look who’s decided to speak up.  
_  
 _ THE MOTHERFUCKING PEASANTBLOODS ARE ALL UP IN THIS SHIT TODAY.  
_  
 _ :33< we furgave you ages ago! please don’t die just yet :((  
_  
You don’t want to hear their voices. They don’t have to keep the living safe; they’re dead! They don’t understand.  
  
 _ thii2 ii2 ju2t fuckiing 2twopiid  
_  
 _ Gamzee, I don’t want you to go off and DI-E! You didn’t cull me!  
_  
 _ you all need to shut up  
_  
 _ STOP MOTHERFUCKING BOTHERING THE HIGHBLOOD  
_  
The cacophany rises, the voices of the dead trolls mingling with the voices that can only be your own in your head until you can’t stand it any more. Death would be a sweet release from this madness.  
  
But no. You aren’t worthy of that. Or maybe you’re too good for that. You really don’t want to die, after all, and no amount of self-pity and good intentions can change that.  
  
You decide to silence the voices the only way you know how.  
  
You crack open a Faygo and pour it into one of Nepeta’s teapots. The hiss and fizz of the sugary soda is enough to interrupt the bickering.  
  
“Who wants to have a motherfucking tea party?” you ask the room, the morbid, blood-decorated corpse room that is empty save for you, you and only you. No one else is here, and for a little bit, you can have a tea party with your corpses and ignore the urges to attend to your duties as a subjuggulator.  
  
Your name is Gamzee Makara, and you are going insane.


End file.
